Loss (14 page)

The world will end in a sheet of white—

No! Be in the now!

He hugs his knees. He knows he’s been slipping, losing pieces of himself as he is flung from present to past and back. A disorder of the mind, surely; nothing can travel from one time to another. He knows this. But when he slips, it feels so very real. It’s completely terrifying, especially because knowing what he does about how the world will end, the notion of fleeing to the past is so very inviting . . .

A shudder ripples through him.
It’s not the end of the world.

He tells himself once more to be a leper, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling a sense of despair so deep that it scoops out his chest and leaves him hollow. Lost, he begins to rock.

If time passes, he does not notice.

The snapping of twigs; the crunching of leaves. And then a strangled sound, followed by a thud, like a sack of flour being tossed to the floor.

The sounds penetrate his despondency, and he finds that a man has fallen to the ground in front of him. He watches the stranger writhing on the forest floor, and he appreciates the way the man’s clothing blends with the colors of the woodlands, all greens and browns, but the purplish tinge to his face ruins the camouflage. The White Rider cocks his head and wonders why the man seems to be struggling for breath. And then it occurs to him.

“Oh,” says the Conqueror. “My apologies.”

With his words he quiets the flare of disease that had attacked the man’s lungs, and the stranger takes in a great heaving gasp of air. His face slowly returns to a more normal color as he continues to breathe deeply.

“And who are you,” asks the Conqueror, “that you go crashing about my woods without permission?”

The man freezes, then looks around cautiously, even as he reaches for a bow and quiver that must have fallen to the ground during his fit. His gaze passes over the White Rider without seeing him.

The Conqueror sighs. It’s been so long since he’s tried to talk to mortals that he’d forgotten to make himself
real
. The man must have sensed something, based on his careful reaction, but that something is no more than a whisper of wind in the ear, or a flash of sunlight at the corner of the eye. The Conqueror shakes his head and scolds himself for his foolishness. With a bit of effort, he anchors his presence in the human world of the real, and then he repeats his question.

Now the man sees him and falls backward with a shout. He scrambles to his feet and grabs his bow, quickly nocking an arrow. The White Rider is amused by the way the man’s face hardens, removing all signs of the terror that had been so clear a moment ago.

The archer takes quick aim at the White Rider’s chest.

The Conqueror is so surprised he actually laughs. It’s a rusty sound, and the motion makes his cheeks hurt, but it’s a welcome sort of pain. Threatening a Horseman? And to threaten
him
in particular with an
arrow?
Oh, humanity! It never ceases to amaze him.

“Are you a madman,” asks the archer, “who laughs in the face of death?”

“Oh, you’re not Death,” says the White Rider. “I’d never laugh in his face. That’s not good for my health. And I know all about health.”

The archer slowly turns his head, as if to get a better look at his potential victim. “You are delirious, sirrah.”

“Sire,” corrects the Conqueror, for he is still a king, even though his name escapes him.

“Sire,” mocks the archer. “Are you King of the Greenwood, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.” A smile unfurls on the White Rider’s face. King of the Greenwood. Yes, he likes the sound of that. “I have a Bow as well. It’s nothing like yours, though.”

The man’s gaze darts over the Conqueror. “I see no bow.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“No bow, no sword, no staff. Knives, perhaps, hidden on your person.”

The White Rider’s brow creases. “Why would I need a knife?”

This seems to fluster the archer. Scowling, he says, “You snuck up on me! To attack me, eh? Steal my things and cut my throat?”

The Conqueror blinks with surprise. “How would I cut your throat if I have no knife? And I’ve been here all along. You didn’t see me until now.”

“Didn’t
see
you?” The man lets out a choked laugh. “You’re wearing bright white in the middle of the forest. I’d have to be blind not to see you!”

The Conqueror considers testing the man at his word—a sudden stroke, perhaps, or a clouding of his eyes—but then the man lets out a cough, then another. Soon he’s doubled over with spasms as harsh, barking coughs wrack his body. He drops the bow and arrow to cover his mouth with one hand and clasp at his chest with the other. When the coughing fit finally passes, the archer collapses to his knees, wheezing.

The White Rider frowns. He’s fairly certain that was his fault. He delves and discovers blackness within the man’s lungs, a blackness that is eating away his insides.

Well then. Not his fault after all.

The blackness makes him think of the Black Rider, and he marvels over how he and Famine work so well together; she from without, he from within, both of them depleting sources of nourishment and sustenance and health. He imagines the two of them working in other, more private ways, and he smiles as he thinks of a feeling like shadows and velvet moving over his skin. Not a memory, that, but a wish, a desire. A hope.

A dream.

He feels himself begin to slip away, and he bites his gloved finger, hard.
Now
, he commands himself through the flare of pain.
Stay in the now!
It is enough; instead of flashing to the past with the one whose company he enjoys best, he remains in the Greenwood with the dying archer who would rob him. Releasing his finger, he lets out a phlegmy sigh. He must be as mad as the archer claimed.

“The coughing will worsen,” he says idly, “as will the pain in your chest.”

The archer doesn’t look at him. When he replies, his voice is hoarse. “So says the physician in the woods. I thought you claimed to be a king.”

The Conqueror smiles briefly. “The King of the Greenwood is passing familiar with the art of medicine.”

“Of course you are.” The archer wipes his mouth, and the back of his hand comes away bloody.

“And yet,” says the Conqueror, “I still don’t know the name of the man who is trespassing in my woods.”

Staring at the blood on his hand, the archer says, “Robert Hode.”

“What brings you here, into the heart of the Greenwood?”

Now the archer looks up and meets the White Rider’s gaze. “I murdered a man.”

“Ah, a cutthroat. Now I see why you were so concerned with knives.”

“He had it coming,” growls Hode. “He was trying to arrest me, all for hunting deer. How am I supposed to eat if I can’t hunt?”

“I’m quite the cutthroat, myself,” the Conqueror says, trying to make conversation. It’s been so long since he’s actually spoken to a human directly, and he’s surprised to find that he’s missed it. “Although I’ve never actually slit a person’s throat, so perhaps the designation is misleading. But I am certainly a murderer, if indirectly.”

Hode frowns at him. “You? Tell me, who has the mad King of the Greenwood killed?”

“I’ve sent numerous men to their deaths. Men who could have been saved, I allowed to die. Women too. And children,” the Conqueror says, his voice soft and haunted. “Children are the worst. Their cries of pain and betrayal stay with you, long after their voices have been forever silenced.”

“You . . .” Hode’s voice breaks, as if he’s horrified by what he’s just heard. “You’ve killed children?”

“Oh, yes. Thousands, over the years. Well, everyone dies,” the Conqueror says defensively. “And life span is so relative. Did you know the mayfly lives only for one day?”

“You
are
insane,” says the wide-eyed archer.

“Sometimes,” admits the Conqueror. “Now that you have run away to the Greenwood, what will you do?”

Hode stares at the White Rider for a long moment before he replies. “I’ll hunt. I’ll lay snares. I’ll find a cave for shelter and weave together a blanket of leaves.” He’s warmed to the sound of his own words, and he declares with passion, “I’ll survive here in the woods, outside the shire-reeve’s law!”

Based on the blackness in his lungs, Hode is a human mayfly. But the Conqueror sees no reason to bring up the man’s imminent death. “So you came to the woods to escape your fate.”

The archer nods. “Here I am a free man, and I will live on my own terms.”

“As long as you’re not caught.”

“I won’t be caught,” he says, scoffing. “I know enough to stay away from the well-trod places in the forest.”

“Clever little outlaw,” says the Conqueror, but he is no longer thinking of the archer.

“The Greenwood will shelter me,” insists Robert Hode. And then his body is wracked with another coughing fit.

The Conqueror barely notices. He is too busy thinking of what it would mean to escape his fate. He has seen the end of the world. He hears the Red Rider’s mocking laughter as she tells him of his final purpose, and he bats the memory aside, forces himself to stay in the now. An idea flits across his mind, and he reaches for it, desperate.

As long as he is here in the Greenwood, without his steed, he cannot ride.

If he cannot ride, he cannot achieve his final purpose.

Therefore, if he stays in the forest, he escapes his fate.

Yes.

He’s nodding now as he plans, and his fingers twine together as if they are trying to keep others from peeking at his thoughts. Yes, he will take his leave of the Horsemen. Not a permanent leave; if he forsakes the Crown, Death will simply find another to wear it. As long as the Conqueror does not resign his position, the White seat will remain filled.

And as long as he chooses not to ride, he cannot achieve his final purpose. Even Death will not be able to stop him.

Simple, really.

He murmurs to himself as he thinks of what he must do next. He will have to hide the Crown and Bow. More than that: He will have to hide among humanity.

He slides a calculating look at Robert Hode, who is shaking as he coughs up blood. And the Conqueror thinks,
Why not?

And so, a plan: Once the archer meets his maker, the Conqueror will hide the Crown and Bow, and take over the reins of Robert Hode’s life. He will have to hide himself as well for a full three days after the man’s life ends, to ensure that he does not come across his Pale colleague.

And then? Dressed as a mortal archer, he will stay in the shire-wood and live as an outlaw. For in truth, he will be the greatest of outlaws—he will be the one who cheats Death.

Making the decision lifts a massive weight from his shoulders and chest, and for the first time since wearing the Crown, he feels lighter. He lifts his head and feels sunlight dapple his face, as if giving him a blessing. He hears the sounds of Robert Hode’s sickness, and he is at ease. The man’s death, unlike so many others, will serve a purpose.
His
purpose.

One that will keep the world from ending.

Peace settles over him and he smiles, content, as he leans against the broad trunk of the oak tree. Here he’ll stay, away from the world with its never-ending diseases and hunger and battles at every corner/

/he is surrounded by lush greens and earthy browns, here in the heart of the Greenwood, where the very ground thrums with life—

***

Billy broke through the surface of the White. He treaded, pondering what he had just witnessed. All this time, he’d lived in terror of the Ice Cream Man, the bogeyman in white. It was extremely disconcerting to see that same man absolutely terrified. Whatever the white thing was that the Conqueror claimed was the end of the world, it was enough to send the White Rider into hiding.

(The end of the world arrives on a sheet of white.)

Billy had no desire to see that particular memory. Which meant he had to find the Conqueror soon.

He looked down at the pool of White, and he wondered how he was supposed to find the modern-day Conqueror in memories of the White Rider’s past. Would he see two identical Horsemen? Would the real Conqueror, concealed in the memory, appear not as a strong middle-aged man with solid features but instead as a living horror with a melted-wax face? There had to be some way to tell.

White beckons White.

This time, Billy swore to look not just at the memory playing for him but also for any hint of the Horseman’s true presence. “Be in the now,” he said aloud, but he had no idea if the Conqueror heard him. He took a breath and dove down.

Chapter 14

Somewhere Within the White . . .

. . . the Conqueror hid. Not some figment of the past mourning a dead daughter or deciding to run away from the Horsemen, but
Billy’s
Conqueror, the Ice Cream Man who’d tricked him into making a choice he hadn’t understood. Billy was going to find the White Rider, the man who had stolen his future.

And when he did, he was going to force the Conqueror to return to the real world and do his job. Somehow.

You can’t hide from me.
Down in the White, Billy reached for another memory.
I’m going to find you.

And White touched White.

***

/he’s seen centuries of battles, of wars erupting over the face of the world like a pox until land and sea were awash in red, but nothing affects him as much as this one boy with his golden hair and honeyed voice convincing thirty thousand children to march to Jerusalem.

The boy is sitting in a brightly painted cart, its canopy sheltering him from the brutal effects of the sun. Even though the Conqueror is half-blind with a cataract temporarily clouding his left eye, he can see that the boy’s hair is poorly shorn and his clothing is barely rags. But even with his pauper’s image, the boy smiles beatifically as he waves at the cheering crowds lining the streets: the adults who have come to witness the spectacle of France’s children going off to war.

Seated atop his steed, unnoticed by the masses, the Conqueror watches. Disgust and outrage battle within his chest, and his stomach twists as if he’d eaten something rotten. Do these children truly believe they can take the so-called Holy Land with nothing but love in their hearts and faith in their God? And their parents—why are their parents allowing such folly?